careful
by Droce
Summary: It's quiet, in a way, it's a secret, in another. Because they're both incredibly private people, and it works for them. Welsey/OC; warning for self-harm/suicide attempts, mention of violence, mentions and depiction of mental illness, brief sex mention.


The first time they meet, he hardly spares them the second glance- they're an employee of the facility. They stare at him, for longer than necessary- if asked later, _it was love at first sight._ In some mild sense of sarcasm, naturally, they'd correct themselves; the point would always stand, they were instantly charmed. They're a nurse in a long-term care facility, _one of New York's best,_ it claimed, a very pleasant, private place.  
His employer was putting his mother away, for the first time, in a place he was assured she was safe. A place of _quality_ and _prestige._ Wesley is twenty-five when they meet- they're barely twenty. It takes a few months before they're so brave as to speak to him- after that, it's small-talk, while he waits for his employer, and they wait for their patient.

There's two years of attempted pick-up lines before there's ever asking to go out to dinner. He recognises the venue from a coworker's talking, it's a sushi joint that served buffet-style, pick your options from a menu, have it all served at once, take nothing home. At their request and his own forethought, he dresses down- he picks them up from their flat.  
He knew better than to _expect_ anything- he's been on dates enough that most of them were more than disappointing, but he finds himself undeniably _endeared_ by their anxiety. He should know better than to make light of it, nor can he specifically _help_ the feeling. It's endearment, simple as that, at their relief when they speak, idly, babbling their nervousness through sips of sweet-tea.

Because he didn't say no when they confessed, _I'm not a girl,_ and he didn't say no when they continued to clarify _I like being called by neutral things and looking cute, but I'm not a girl._  
Because he _accepted._

"Some first date," they say, the laugh soft, hollow, when food comes, and they pick at it, hardly eating, "I'm sorry," they say, for the thirtieth time in the last hour. His response is simple, _You're doing fine,_ and only raising a brow when they correct themselves to say, "I'm sorry I can't take you anywhere nicer."

When they make to take the tab, he's got his hand on theirs, and he hardly says anything- but when they _argue_ him, he speaks, the most he has, the whole date. "Allow me," in a tone that spoke clearly _there was no arguing._  
They stop talking after that- when he walks them to the door of their apartment complex- if only because he half-expects them to invite him in, _that's what adults on dates tended to do_ ,-, the laugh is nervous, too-loud, "I don't think that's got me a second date, does it?"

He's almost amused by it- he lets himself smile, "The opposite," as he makes to take the night's complimentary card, scribble a number on the back of it, tear it off- offering both bits of paper to them. When they just _stare_ at his hands as if he's got too many fingers or none at all, He speaks, to clarify, "Your number."  
A shock back to earth, they nod, too quickly, and the numbers are disorganised and scribbled, and he can barely make out the number- not the local area code, but he'd question it later. They don't make for contact, instead, they hold on to one of his hands and bow profusely.  
And now, he can't deny they're some kind of _cute._ He'd been initially appealed to them for their mentions of academia and the joy of languages, he'd accepted the date for shared interests in knowledge and linguistics. It's to _almost_ kiss the top of their head, he bids them good-night.

He gets a text, a few days later, and he's not surprised by how they write, _[ i'm schizoaffective. i'm sorry i didn't say anything earlier. i'm so sorry, please don't hate me. it's okay to stop talking to me. i won't blame you. ]_ He can't help but call them, directly, middle of the night after the text is received, _you could have told me sooner._ It becomes a long conversation, they sound like they've been crying, and they start crying again, they're too apologetic and he can't help but like them for it. The need for honesty and a sense of complete openness. They tell him if anything progresses, they'll never have children. They aren't stable enough, they bite back tears, they wouldn't be a good parent. Their genetics won't be passed on, because nobody deserves the guarantee of schizophrenia. He learns, they go between depressive and schizophrenic, and that was what the word _schizoaffective_ meant to them. He listens to them cry about how they'd never get the job of a real, solid, chemical engineer because of it. They weren't allowed into the facilities, they'd wasted their money and time and health to get a degree that gave them no real benefit, anymore.

It becomes mild routine- they see eachother once a week, on behalf of Wesley's employer and their employment, they go out once a month, on a weekend when they're both free, specifically for that. It becomes _seeing eachother,_ instead of _knowing_. They talk less during work, more at dinners. Neither makes to publicise- there was a mutual respect for the privacy of the other.  
Because he doesn't say no, even after they tell him _i'm broken,_ he doesn't say no, after they mutter, _i'm sorry i'm not a woman._ Because he accepts them without argument, only ever questions for clarification or comfort.

It's a half-year of seeing eachother, when they stop calling eachother by the names everyone else calls them by. Pet names, without being pet-names. They call him rarely by his last name, rather, by his first and middle name, expressly, or some varied pet name, _James Owen,_ or _sweetness, darling, my love,_ and any equivalent in another tongue that was mutually spoken. He stops calling them by _Shika,_ or the last name _Xyzx,_ (to his unending amusement, pronounced _siz-icks_ ) and makes to call them only by puns based on the first name. _Deer,_ or _Cervus,_ or any other specific name of a deer species that might relate- it's a playful annoyance on their part, and he refers to them only as _the deer,_ in speech or mentally. He stops elaborating- instead, he simply insists that they are an _actual deer,_ in absolute seriousness. He's amused, they find it _brilliant,_ and anyone else would be annoyed. The only time last names are used against one another, is in seriousness that entails argument or any other disagreement.

It's two years of seeing eachother before they invite him inside after dinner- he'd left it to them to make the initiative; he knows more than well enough, this would be their first- and then, after this, he'd have all of their firsts. He'd be proud of himself, if it weren't depressing. He has their first, and he has the _joy_ of listening to their panicked post-sex realisations, _I was going to wait until I was married,_ and _this was sacred, you at least like me, right?_ \- All things they'd said before, in conversation on the topic thereof.  
He just wanted to _sleep._ He doesn't; he lets them lay on his chest, talk into his skin. They tell him they love him, it's the second time they've done that, and he's flinched, almost ready to walk out of the room and _leave,_ and he's not sure why.  
Instead, he stays. He keeps a hand on their shoulder, says _I adore you,_ and feels the mild guilt when they go quiet and he can feel them doing what they can to be quiet when they cry on him.

It's a year of something strained. They frequent eachother's flats, after dinner, if dinner wasn't already had and home-cooked, and it's not for the express purpose of sex. It's just continuing, spending the night and sharing the bed and the morning after- he always dresses down, coming to their flat, spending time with them. Because it's something he does expressly for _them_ , and it's not worthwhile to wear a suit when he's going to their flat, to come back covered in cat fur.  
He gets the neighbour's phone number, and they have his, if they were to do something to themselves- he's noticed that the neighbours tend to come over, sometimes, when he's there, they knock and check up on them. Every other day, they explained. Just in case. They were to call him if anything were off. Calls come when all that's heard is screaming from their door, he's the only person with a key, aside from themselves. They're scared, more often than not. They cling to him, they cry, they hyperventilate, wail, and eventually calm down.

When calls come because there's something _significantly off,_ he breaks the speed limit beyond reason; he's in time to hear the gunshot behind the door, and, after that, he's relieved to hear the screaming continue. Not that any of it helps. Nothing helps, his hands shake and he almost can't open the door. The neighbours say they'll call an ambulance, he hears them dial, in the background of all the noise.  
There's _so much blood._ They'd taken to their balcony, they'd put two nails through their left hand with a nailgun, pinned it to the balcony, and a bullet through their right foot, lodged into the concrete. He regrets ever having asked them to get a handgun and a license, because he was concerned for their safety, because he wasn't thinking when he said it, because _he fucked up._ He's prying open their balcony when they rip their hand from the nails, widening the wound, the hole, and _the blood._ The screaming chokes out, it's horrified sounds, some kind of awe, shock, if anything, and when he gets to them, he can't do anything but wrap his arms around them, first, before it's using whatever was in reach to wrap around their foot, their hand, apply pressure, tell them it'll be fine. An ambulance would come, eventually, he'd say, and for a moment, he's worried they might die. He didn't think they would- yet, there was always the possibility. They go limp leaning on him, he's covered in their blood, _he feels sick._  
He sits in the back of the ambulance and outside when they have operations on their hand and foot, to restore as much as possible. With some therapy and healing, they'd get most, if not full, mobility, told the doctors. He tells the staff, he doesn't know why they would've done that. He tells them what they can, _he feels sick,_ and he's not sure if he's livid or horrified.

He's allowed to sit in their room until they wake up from the anesthesia and he's close to yelling when the only things he can do is ask them _why,_ and _why couldn't you talk to me,_ and he's somewhere between scared and livid and he's not sure quite _how_ to react. They speak after an hour of him speaking, too quiet, voice breaking, _I wasn't supposed to die,_ they mutter, _Or maybe I was. What do I have to live for, if this is all I'll ever be, a fucking nurse assistant with a useless degree and more useless mind,_ and when he makes to respond they continue, _it's not like you love me, Wesley._ It's a kind of cold and detached that's so unlike them that it makes him nervous every time he hears it from their mouth, and now, his blood runs cold.

He's quiet, and it's a moment to process, and for the first time in his memory, _he cries_ , arms folded on their hospital bed, face hidden in his sleeves. It's the first time he tells them he loves them, he has to say it twice that they realise and respond; the smile is small, relieved, the laugh hoarse, _if that was what it took, I should've done this sooner._ He continues to visit them in the hospital and psychiatric ward, for at least an hour, every day until they were released. He talks to them, partially because the medication they'd put on made them unbearably quiet, and took the life out of them. They make to ask why he didn't say it until then- when he explains that he's not sure why, they suggest the word _aromanticism,_ and when he looks into it, it makes sense to him. While not exact, a variant of the definition _works_ for him, and they look twice as relieved when he tells them as much. _It would've been easier if you said so sooner_ , they laugh, _greyromanticism suits you so well._

Later, they tell him, _I wanted the stigmata. I'm Jesus come twice, I thought._ He can only respond, in time, _If you're Christ, I'm your Magdelene._

They spend another half year being _fine,_ and they bring up meeting his parents, at some point, and that he meet theirs. Because after three and a half years of being a thing, and being a very steady thing, they think it's right. Another few months of coercing, and he takes them to Massachusetts for a few days- to meet his parents. He can't stand either of his parents, in personal opinion. They were typical of the people they were- rich for a daze, white, too-polished and too-stiff, generally horrible. In personal opinion, he disliked them as people- there was love for them, in the sense that they were his _parents,_ nothing more. He brings them home, the both of them stay in his old room- the deer is absolutely astonished at _everything,_ and he's ultimately endeared by that.  
His parents aren't subtle in their disapproval of his company; they're _pierced,_ they say, _what a degenerate,_ in subtle terms, _and they're bizarre._ He always speaks to their defence, but never specifically so. After two days of bylined comments, they're the ones to lash out at them, it's yelling, screaming _I'm sorry for being schizophrenic,_ and _I'm sorry for being a degenerate and having a forked tongue and I'm trying so hard to do this right, and if you don't like me, say it._ They cry, of course they cry, because they're used to this happening, they hadn't expected it here. They'd expected nice things in visiting his parents. The reaction, in and of itself, speaks enough. His parents quiet down, his parents try harder to like their son's company.  
Because they made the effort. Because they did what they could to do right by all parties and gain approval. They weren't liked in the home of his parents- they were simply accepted, as they were. When they leave, it's on decent terms.

It became the complete opposite, when the two of them go to the midwest for a few days, months later, to meet their parents, and, candidly, he finds himself bombarded with a small house, _more cats,_ and a family that can't help but constantly comment on how white and blonde and money Wesley is. After a few hours of the blonde commentary, he makes to admit that it's _not natural,_ and that spurs another series of brother is a drag artist, they tell him, their mother does environmental work, and their father does _whatever_ and talks to the cats all day. He shares their old room, their old bed, barely big enough for the both of them, and he finds it _cozy._ It's monumentally more pleasant than their time visiting his parents- he feels an overwhelming sense of being _welcome,_ despite the initial awkwardness of such a nonchalant environment- especially one that's so liberal, so leftist. It's a small sort of refreshing, even if his allergies are spiked by the weather.

He's not sure how it comes up as _pillow talk_. They stare at the ceiling, regardless of who's laying on who, and talk to the air. "You've got horns, sometimes." The statement's blunt, and he's almost horrified. "You're a monster. Absolutely horrible." They say this with full knowledge of the blood on his hands, the atrocities he orders and is indirectly involved in, nevermind those with his direct hand. They're aware, and for a moment, he knows what kind of horror they consistently feel: the vague fear of being _left._ They might've picked up on it, or they might've been picking their words, "You're my monster, though. I love you, regardless. You've got morals, they're just skewed. Mine are, too. But you act on it, and that's the real difference. You know what you're doing." Another pause, and they spoke, hands in his hair, still kept long and blonde, "Sometimes, I wonder which one of us is really crazy one." He can't help but laugh with them, quietly.  
Most of the time, pillow talk is more idle. They count his freckles, sometimes, usually hidden by a quick swipe of a cream to hide them, usually wiped off after he stepped foot into either of their flats. They'd stare at his face, count, re-count, and count again, and write it down with the date, the numbers fluctuated, more with season, sometimes with count. They'd note to adore the freckles, and admire the skill in his prettily his hair was dyed, _introduce me to your stylist._

He's been seeing them for nearly four years when they mention getting married, and he explains, that as with the living situation, it's a matter of security. Because he is what he is, does as he does, the Right Hand of a criminal mastermind, _the Kingpin,_ no less, it becomes an issue if he were ever recognised and _they_ were recognised for being affiliated with him. They feel, it probably has something to do with his romantic orientations, and they tell him as much- he won't deny, it probably is. It's sometime a few months later that he stops dying his hair blonde, and goes back to having dark brown hair, cut it shorter, change his frames. Because he's _thirty-one,_ he says, he needs to look more like it. They tell him it's as good a reason as any, and it takes some adjusting until they _like_ it. When they do, though, they take very well to most of it. They've always had a gap of just over five years between them- sometimes, he feels slightly wrong for it, for a total of five minutes.

The year after is Hell, when Matthew Murdock makes Wesley's work _difficult,_ and Karen page _tries to kill him._ He's thirty-two, he's been shot seven times, he's been left for dead and _ought to be_ and they saw him on the examiner's table and Fisk can only say _I'm so sorry._ They ask to be alone with him, they finger-fuck his bullet holes and kiss his corpse and when he chokes, _he chokes_ , he _breathes,_ and they scream at the top of their lungs in some kind of startled fear, _if this was real or not._

They inadvertently resuscitate him, it's all sorts of fucked-up, they muse, later, and they _laugh_ every time they tell the story to nearly nobody.

He spends days in varying surgeries, he's bought the best in new and donated organs, he's in physical therapy and the hospital for a year, and they're sitting by him every day of it that they're allowed, if he's awake or not. When he's able to walk about, freely, it's a year after he dies, the first time; if it's one thing after another, he has his throat slit the fifth day out and working, because he does things he shouldn't, he's determined to get back to work. He's in surgery and rehabilitation for two months afterward, and it's the fourth time he tells them he loves them, the person that sits at his bedside and holds his hand and admires his existence when he's _pathetic._

They take the habit of talking to him, when he drifts in and out of consciousness. Some idle fairy-tale, he'd thought. When he was awake enough to listen, they were describing ideals. _We'd get married,_ they said, softly, and they looked so at peace, _We'd leave this place, we'd go somewhere nice and quiet. Out of this place. Another country. We'd assimilate in._ The talking would continue, soft and ideal, sometimes varied to a specific country and what it would entail- he finds himself initially concerned, before it becomes some kind of relaxing to listen to.  
When he's allowed out and about, he's still weak, but he's smarter for it- he's started carrying a weapon, and he goes into situations less often on his own. He's shaken by dying on an operating table multiple times, they understand him when he talks about it, when he does. That there's nothing, if a Christian upbringing ever failed him, it was now. There wasn't a God or an afterlife, he'd said, quietly, reaffirming something he'd told himself he'd already known.

He's a year out of all rehabilitation and surgery, when they overdose antipsychotics, because it was always something, with the both of them. They talk, they cry, _you refuse to marry me,_ \- because they tended to keep the things that bothered them most down until they were forced to say it, they didn't want to start conflict for perpetual fear that he would _leave_ \- between claims of everything being poison, everything toxic, they hadn't eaten in weeks. It's a few days in the hospital and a few weeks in the psychiatric ward again, and they make compromise. It wasn't an engagement, so much as a promise ring- they seem more content with that, than anything else.

When they're able to leave this place. When it settles, when everything settles down and they're both safe to leave to somewhere _better than Manhattan,_ and _better than New York,_ he tells them, then it'll be an engagement, then a marriage, living together. It'd come eventually, he promised, keeping hold on their hands, just not soon. The quiet acknowledgement was that it may never happen, but if possible, it might.

And they're fine with that. He's fine with it.

Because they never say no, when he comes home with blood in his cuffs and tells them, quietly, he killed a man and his children, and they never say no, when he comes home smelling of gasoline, and he tells them, in some mild awe, he watched a foolish man burn to death, though not by his hand. Because they take him for what he is beyond face value, they take him, regardless of seeing him as a devil in flesh, or a saint still breathing, in his entirety.  
Because they're both ruined, completely differently, and they're accepted.

* * *

a/n; you know who's fucking disgusting ? i'm fucking disgusting this is literally self-insert fanfiction. GROSS. and i told myself my daredevil self-insert wouldn't see the light of day.  
i love all versions of wesley so so so sooooo much though light of my life fire of my loins my sin my soul prince of my heart...  
anyway this kind of merges all versions of wesley (comics/2003 movie/netflix) into one... lies down i love him _so much_


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